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Red Pepper is the Queen of Little Venice eateries, by a long shot. It’s been here for quite some time now, as far as I can remember; appearing out of nowhere, sometime during my teens, and this, coinciding with that particular era, holds many a memory for me (both good and bad), ones which are firmly embedded somewhere deep within the thorny hedgerows of Maida Vale’s memory lane. When I happen to pass it nowadays (which is not very often, but still), it all comes flooding back to me, sentimentally secular chunks of my life, certain stages, reeled out in front of me, like a montage of memoried moments. It’s weird how places (and music) can do that to a person.

I remember when it opened, I think around the early 90’s, and I definitely remember each and every meal I had there, that’s for sure. It’s what Little Venice had been gasping for, for absolutely ages. A high quality, cosy, local eatery, that wasn’t too posh, wasn’t too complicated, wasn’t too intimidating or stuffy and that served wine by the bucket load (you have to bear in mind that Little Venetians are supposed to be sophisticated yeah?).

The fact that it was situated on Formosa Street, really added to it’s appeal and amplified it’s cosiness ten fold. Formosa St is a snippet of a cut-through street, Warrington Crescent’s tributary, trickling on the edge of Little Venice; a relic of a road that is basically frozen in time, Victorian time that is; you can literally smell the history in the air there. It’s a quiet side street, and this enables the restaurant to cater for those who want to dine outside. I think there’s at least two tables out the front, under the canopy. I haven’t been there for years, so I can only comment on how it used to be; but it looks pretty much the same as when I pass it now, so I’m not quite sure what the food is like nowadays.

The theme is Italian. Very Italian. An Italian pizzeria, with the focus on the actual Italian part. This was a cunning trick. Even Baldrick couldn’t see this one coming. He fooled everyone; the owner that is. He’s actually my neighbour, and he’s not even Italian. Nor is his accomplice, the lady that used to serve us back in the day when it first opened. These guys are Moroccans. You could’ve fooled me. I swear they used to greet us by saying “Ciao” and stuff like that. Hahahaha. I wonder what “Ciao” is in Moroccan. I only found out about it one night back in 1999 when I was hanging out with my brother and this dude on Clifton Road. The dude was a receptionist at the Collonade hotel and he knew the ins and outs of absolutely everything in the neighbourhood. He told us everything. Apparently the owner also owns the Green Olive, which is another local restaurant in the neigbourhood, along with a bunch of other ones too. Whatever the case, they played the Italian card so well that they managed to dupe the lot of us!!!

But apart from that, I remember the pizzas being absolutely delicious. They were cooked the authentic way, in a stone-wood fired oven, which at the time was a bit of a novelty. Nowadays, Basilico and the likes use the same technique, and deliver to your door, but back then, those kind of delivery companies didn’t exist, I don’t think.

There’s a ground level section with a big window, and a downstairs basement section. Downstairs you get the full view of the wood fire oven (wonderful during the wintertime), and it’s more private down there too; you can indulge in more heated conversations than you can do upstairs. Upstairs has the benefit of the front aspect window-view though, so perhaps up there is better suited to lunchtime-dining (whatever the case, this place is always full, so it’s not like you can be picky about where you get to sit (unless you make a reservation that is)).

The pizzas were so good, man. Thin and crispy with the full works of ‘Italian’ style toppings. You have to bear in mind that in Italy, ‘Pepperoni’ refers to peppers and stuff like that, whereas ‘Pepperoni’ as we know it, is in fact called ‘salami’. I’m not quite sure if they do it like that here though. Loads of wines to choose from; hearty full-bodied red wines that compliment the greasy food, of course.

Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. I remember this one time I was cycling past on my bicycle one night, when I spotted my psychiatrist dining in the window, with what can only be described as ‘a really hot chick’. He was not hot, may I add; definitey not hot. He looked like a bespectacled pin-striped Teletubby. He was chubby, certainly not a goodlooker, but a nice guy nonetheless. It was only the previous week that I was having a session with him in the hospital where he worked at, out in the countryside; and then voila!, I see him spending my psychiatric money on some steam-rolled Morrocan frizbees and tasty Tiramisus, in the company of a semi-sophisticated semi-pinstriped, stunningly fine-looking young filly. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had to stop and wave at him; didn’t want to be rude, and with this, his girlfriend lit up like a lightbulb, obviously finding it all terribly amusing (she probably thought we were part of the same ‘Bmx gang’ or something); but alas, he wasn’t so happy to see me; he’d been sussed out; looked like a deer that had just been caught-up in the oncoming headlights.

Then there was this other time, when I was dining outside in the summertime with my father and my brother, when my brother began to goad me continuously throughout my meal, with a highly offensive, deeply distressing, hurtful verbal onslaught. I tried to take it like a man for a short while, but he just wouldn’t stop; and everyone could hear. It was just so embarrassing. So I stood up, grabbed his chair, and flung him backwards onto the pavement so hard, that he looked like he’d just been wiped out by a Tsunami. He looked like a NASA space astronaut getting ready for take off; arms flailing at the side, legs dangling out front. Suddenly, this ‘gentleman’ who was in his 30’s and dining with a couple of male friends behind us, leapt up and came to my brother’s rescue. “Hey you! What are you doing?! Stop that!!!!” (he said that to me, not to my brother). So I turned around and said “What the f**k you gonna do about it?!” and gave him a WWF-styled chest-pump right to his mid-section. He flew back at least a couple of yards, and then just stood there smiling, almost bemused by my reaction, but also by the fact that I was half his height, half his age, and was able to propel him through the air a good few feet backwards or so.

Now dont get me wrong, I’m not saying that there’s something in the food here that makes you violent, but there’s definitely shall we say a ‘buzzing atmosphere’ here. But it’s also very laid back in there as well, retaining a formal dining ethos. The obligatory ‘table-for-two’ malarki is obviously inevitable, as is the whole “would you like to read the wine list, sir?” act that follows. But none of these formalities detract from the overall relaxed approach to dining that you can experience in here. It’s really comfy, man (despite the wooden chairs), especially downstairs. There’s one gem of a table which is situated in it’s own semi-secluded alcove (with a view to the brick-oven); the perfect spot for a romantic (or private) dinner-for-two.

There was this one time, when my father and I were dining at the window on the ground floor. We were sitting next to a gentleman who had the table to himself and was seemingly enjoying his dinner just like the rest of us. He was the same age as my father, and they both had exchanged a few words here and there, not really a conversation as such, just a bit of a chit chat. So I thought I’d be friendly too and join in. So I said “HAVE YOU GOT A WIFE?”, and he just blanked me, like I was the invisible man; like I didn’t exist. He just sat there, stuffed a bunch of pizza into his mouth and started chewing on it like it was Cud. I think maybe I had inadvertently put my foot in it (not into his mouth). I don’t know why I even bothered, I was only trynna be friendly. (When you don’t talk to people you get accused of being antisocial, and when you do talk to them, you end up putting your feet into their mouths).

But anyway, if you live in Little Venice, then you will love this place no matter what. I mean, a couple living in a say 2-bed (or even a 1 bed) apartment on the Warrington Crescent, would only just have to stumble out of their Doric temple, stroll across the road, and hey presto!, they got the full works waiting for them; pizzas, wines, ice creams, coffees, canopies, Moroccans, Mock-Italians, ‘Cud-munchers’, Psychiatric-Teletubbies, ‘Gentlemen’, Tarts, tarts, rowdy Teenagers, Tiramisus, Indian aristocrats, the whole lot; it’s all there, ready and waiting. They can get sloshed without having to worry about how they’re going to get home. Definitely a couples’ place. Mind you, large families are catered for too as well, with their big round tables.

But my fondest memory of this place, was when I went there with my personal tutor (an aristocratic 30-something-yo Indian man called Selva) one icy-cold mid-week winter night, and we took that special table downstairs by the fire, and watched our dinner being hand-made right before our very eyes. We had two bottles of wine that night as well!!! Then right at the end, the waiter asked us if we would like some coffee. So I remember turning to Selva and asking him if it was an ‘urban myth’ whether or not Caffeine does in fact sober you up. I speculated that surely the Caffeine would only just add to the ‘high’ of being drunk as opposed to negating the overall effect; and due to it’s diuretic properties, would probably add to the dehydration caused by the getting drunk as well. He agreed. “Does Caffeine sober you up Selva?”, I asked. “Nooooooooooo, don’t be silly, it just increases the buzz a bit.” Ahhhhhhhh, now that makes more sense; the waiter was just trying to increase the final buzz… a bit…

Bslemah!!!!

REVIEW OF RAOULS RESTAURANT CLIFTON RD

If there’s one word that springs to mind to describe my experience of this place, then it has to be ‘anticlimax’. Allow me to explain… As you’ve probably gathered by now if youve read any of my other reviews, I’ve grown up in Maida Vale and so these local restaurants/eateries have been pretty much part of my visual landscape for almost two decades now. When you see something over and over day in day out, it begins to weave itself into the tapestry of your life, more than often, being something that you just take for granted, visually that is. Think of any road you may walk down every day in your life. Have you ever stopped to study each and every door and building and object that lies along the way? Because I can assure you, you will be surprised at what you might find. Things you’ve been walking past for years, that you never knew existed. To give a very diluted example of this, I only recently noticed by accident, that each and every black baluster making up the long line of balustrade that runs the full length of Hyde Park adjacent to Rotten Row separating the row from the cycle path, has written on it, names of deceased people. The names are written in black in the same colour as the balustrade, so unless you actually bend over and take a good look at them, it’s hardly noticeable. And this is not advisable, because you will probably end up with your name on one of them too, having been mowed down by one of the oncoming cyclists. Not the best of examples (I can think of loads more, like the river that runs in the air right through Sloane Sq tube station), but still, it illustrates how we just take things for granted, without ever really truly knowing (or more accurately, bothering ourselves to know) what lurks behind the facade that lines our streets.

For me, Raouls cafe was just this; one of the few jewel-like corner-stones that laid the foundations down for the character and soul of the now-ruined Clifton Rd, in Little Venice; along with Vickis cafe (now Molly’s!) across the way, the now non-existent Post office on the corner (the decommissioning of this place was simply a crime), Superfoods, a beautifully quaint, spotless, gleaming 1950’s American styled supermarket (complete with background chiming music) that was gobbled up by Tescos around 2004, Cullens, residing just next door, the perfect antidote to the sterilized feel of commercialized supermarket shopping, and the two newsagents that flanked the supermarkets on either side. Raouls was (and still is) Little Venice’s flagship restaurant. One of it’s remarkable qualities, is that it has this wonderful chameleon-like ability to change it’s form, function and guise during the course of the day. In the mornings (I believe this is the best time to experience what Raouls has to offer), it’s like one of those New York style breakfast bashers, serving up good quality morning grub (so I’ve gathered). At lunchtime it magically turns into a bistro! De-deer! Filled with Little Venician mothers nattering away at each other like there’s no tomorrow, using words like ‘parsimonious’; a smattering of MaidaVale glitterati; local business people etc grabbing a bite to eat whilst simultaneously doing business verbally; and the obligatory local St John’s Wood/Maidavale ‘rich folk’ whiling away their free time (and daddy’s money) whilst casually sipping away at the current fashionable version of a particular style of coffee. Come late afternoon, Raouls suffers a slight bout of multiple-personality-disorder, it doesn’t know which way to turn, having a bit of a problem deciding whether or not to remain as restaurant for the remainder of the day, or slip back into it’s cafeteria attire for a couple of hours or so. Food is available all day, but I think afternoons is teatime here, to be honest. Then in the evening, its full-on restaurant time, right up until last orders which is around 10.30pm to 11pm.

I had a meal here once, through no choice of my own. My father was renovating his house round the corner and it was temporarily gutted out. We’d been living off takeaways for weeks, and were bored of the same ones, so we decided to try Raouls out, reluctantly may I add; for the first time in twenty years. I’d been there a couple of times before with my mum, but just for a glass of wine or something like that, not food. We were late, and so scurried down the hill to try and make it in time. As usual, the place was packed out and really bustling. The sonourous blend of clinking and clanking coupled with the mild roar of alcohol induced conversation completely blasted me the second I opened the front door; not to mention the accompanying gust of stares, and the gust of wind that followed it, blowing my Beatles hairbob into a freshly erected Amy Winehouse bouffant, plastering my innocent looking physiognomy backwards by a millimeter or two, like I had just recovered from a facelift whilst simultaneously accelerating from 0-2000mph in under a second. It was all mouth in there. I thought you’re not supposed to talk with your mouth full whilst eating? If that’s the case, then nobody was eating in there; that is unless Raouls had been hired out to the ventriloquist section of a passing circus act for the evening. It’s true what they say about this place; the focus is more to do with seeing and being seen, than it is with eating haute cuisine, or even mediocre cuisine for that matter.

The food was c**p, man; I swear to god, it was c**p. I beckoned the waitress over to my table and almost had to use neolithic sign language (a concoction of various grunts combined with complicated hand signals) just to convey my order to her, such was the breakdown in communication. So I just ended up pointing to my dishes on the menu. “Okay, I’ll have that one, that one, that one, errrrrrrrr, that one…..that one…….and that one.” She got it all pretty neatly, but then her eyes started to well up and water like she’d just been sprayed with CS gas (restaurant control); I couldn’t figure it out. At first I thought the gasses from my empty stomach had managed to pass up through my wind pipe and annihilate her olfactory nerves, but then she started laughing at me. I asked her what was wrong, and she said “Oh it’s nothing. No one has ever ordered to me like this before.”, which was really sweet. I cheered the poor girl up. She’d obviously been used to taking a load of horse-s – - t all day long from the snobbish clientelle, and my candid approach must’ve been a breath of fresh air for her.

We ordered a variety of dishes, pretty much as much as we could get our hands on; not because we were hungry, but because we were curious to find out what the food was like. I had this huge beefburger, which was absolutely gross. It was vulgar in appearance and looked like a UFO. It didn’t have much taste to it either, which was really really dissapointing. It looked like the spare tyre of one of the delivery trucks. Bland. We had some Calamari dish to start with, which was pretty good, but then again, you’d have to be really bad in the kitchen to mess Calamari up (deep fried squid rings), such is it’s simplicity. There were a couple of dips and fresh bread which were quite nice. I think they actually called all this the Meditreanean Mezes, or something to that effect. Not bad, but again, too simple to get wrong. The fresh bread was nice. There was a dish with a huge duck egg on it, which I enjoyed, but then again, ducks eggs are yummy as standard, so it was bound to taste pretty good. I remember trying my Dad’s dish, but really, whatever it was, I wasn’t impressed. Neither of us were impressed. I was hoping, in a sort of flaggelatory way, to come out of Raouls in tears, ranting and raging, clawing at my dad, demanding to know why he hadn’t been taking me to this place throughout the years. It really wasnt the case. It was very, very dissapointing indeed. To make matters worse, one of the waitresses got jealous because I made the other waitress laugh with my primitive ordering technique. So I had a terrible time trying to order desert from her. The rules stipulated that only one slice of cake was allowed per dish, with a scoop of ice cream. But I wanted more; I wanted to try two or three different flavours of cake (they got a nice selection at the counter), and different scoops of ice cream. But she wasn’t having it, and we started bickering at each other either side of the cake display. I said I wanted three slices of cake and she started waggling her head side to side like Droopy the cartoon character. I think I got my way in the end, but to make her point, the uncooperative person brought three separate plates to my table, with all the different slices of cake that I wanted to try out. The table was filled with cake plates. When I came back from the toilets, I thought my dad had decided to throw a birthday party for himself, to try and cheer himself up. “What the f – - k is going on here?” he demanded to know. “Take it back!!!!!!!! He’s a pig!!!!!!!”, he instructed the waitress. “No!!!!!” I said. “I want to have my cake and eat it!!!!! Leave it!!!!! Leave my cake!!!!”. I ate everything… All the cake, all the ice cream, I ate the whole god damn lot, damn it. I had turned into ‘Mediocre Man’. My belly was filled with mediocrity. I felt like saving someone. Mediocre Man to the rescue!!!!!

I think to be fair, Raouls is all about location and style. In the summer time its lovely; there’s scores of tables stretched right round the side of the building, and without doubt, this alfresco dining scenario really does add a wonderful villagy atmosphere to the surrounding vicinity. I think if you’re a regular here, you will know instinctively what to order, from experience… I’ve heard the eggs are a winner, as is the coffee, the cakes….. And I believe the all-in-one salads are a good choice too (for ladies who lunch of course).

A word of warning though, the staircase leading down to the toilets is quite literally a deathtrap. I think the only reason the staff are all foreign nationals, is because they are all Eastern European gymnasts who have been selected, hand picked by Madame herself (the pretty blond chick that hovers around the place), the Raouls owner, to specifically master the staircase leading downstairs. They have learnt cookery and waitering as secondary skills. Primarily, they are gymnasts by profession. You simply cannot go up and down that staircase all day long, day in day out, without having some sort of gymnastic ability, that is for sure.

I noted the gathering at the table next to us seemed to be having a whale of a time, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were shoveling horse s – - t into their mouths. They were sophisticated 50yo-something mixed gender semi-pseudo-intellectuals, sort of like Germaine Greer wannabes. I swear they were eating the same stuff as us. That was undoubtedly the highlight of our meal, watching my father get progressively more and more disgruntled and irate, as their table, and them along with it, somehow magically began floating towards us. It got to a point where my father had to hold his hand out like he was making a left turn, just to gesticulatingly put it across to them that they were invading his personal airspace. Don’t ask me how they did it. Maybe the table legs were on wheels. Maybe it was all that hot air that was coming out of their mouths. Or perhaps they had eaten one too many of the infamous Raouls ‘glow-in-the-dark, fluorescent-orange, organic-free-range, lactose-intolerant, cholesterol-free, one-of-your-50-a-day, low-in-saturated-fats, high-in lactophilosophogusaustralopithicusrobustushowsyafatherishestillwiththemissuscantaffordthemortgageohfukdis gut-friendly-bacterium eggs, and had synchronized themselves with a makeshift performance of ’Flatulence in F Minor’ beneath their dining room table. I told you it was a circus act didn’t I? That was undoubtedly the piece de resistance, the grand finale, colliding with the hovering Greers….

Oh well. All that glistens isn’t gold. But I think Raouls will always have a special place in my heart, as that fancy restaurant on Clifton Rd I used to cycle past everyday as a kid, dreaming of perhaps maybe one day, being one of the lucky ones sat inside it…

Addie's Thai is an Urban Legend; and for good reason too. They've been here since 1987, and are still going strong; not surprising, as they've perfected the art of serving Oriental fast food that places the sole priority of satisfying the eater's tastebuds first, way before everything else. It's all about the flavour; there are no corners cut here when it comes to tending to the tongue. The flavours are over-the-top, massively indulgent, satiating, animated in appearance, glutinous, and gluttonous; a real treat, leaving the mouth awash with pure satisfaction, with lips curled up at the side in sheer delight.

When it boils down to it, 'Oriental delivery/takeaways' are a treat really, aren't they? You don't eat this type of food to get healthy, do you? You eat it because it tastes good; it tastes different; it's the opposite of boring isn't it? 'Boring' is boiling a pot of pasta and adding some ground beef to it to turn it into a Spaghetti Bolognese; 'fun' is picking up the phone after a few drinks and having a bit of a bubbly chinwag with the restauranteur, then setting the stop-watch before frantically scurrying around the house like the Tasmanian devil, trying to find some cash (with a fictitious elongated 30-min Countdown theme-tune building up in your head), or for the more sadistic of you, gleefully laying in wait until the order has been relayed, then reveling in the tremendous joy of hearing that ever-so-slight woefully sounding sigh as you connivingly state to the person on the other end of the line "I'd like to pay by card please."; the cheap thrill you get and the goosebumps that cover your forearms when the front doorbell goes, "it's here!!!"; the ceremonial '2001 A Space Odyssey'-styled 'opening of the front door' to greet the spaceman who smells of traffic (who's already reaching out to hand you a big plastic bag filled with your steaming goodyness); the expectation of it all; the pulling of the dishes out one by one from of the bag and trying to figure out what is what and who's is who's; the lid-popping; the sniffing; the obligatory "I didn't order this!?" comment regardless of the whether or not it was what you ordered; the tucking-in, the munching-with-no-manners, the burping, the small-talk, the guzzling of the fizzy drink right at the end; the playing of 'kitchen-basketbal' with the kitchen bin and the empty containers; and then finally, the last act, the waddling over to the sofa and slumping down in it like a Walrus auditioning for a part in the 'Royle Family'.

There's a whole culture involved isn't there? It's an operatic act starting right from the second you pick up the phone. And with Addie's Thai, you are not just 'ordering a takeaway', you are buying a ticket or two for this Oriental opera, that will provide you with the classic takeaway/delivery experience, from start to finish. 

As soon as the call is answered, you are greeted by the ever-chirpy, effusively attentive, heart-warmingly friendly host, a lady who's name I have forgotten, who, regardless of the weather, will cheer you up no-end, and by the second call, will know your first name and your favourite dishes off by heart. Slightly lascivious in nature, if you are male, do not be put off by what may seem like flirtatious behaviour; it all adds to the Addie's experience. This is the time to practice some sexual innuendo jokes, or any joke for that matter. The phone-calling here reminds me of communicating with male Air Stewards on British Airways flights; it's got that similar sort of tongue-in-cheek Carry-on style of tone to it. 

And when the food arrives, you will have no trouble whatsoever with their extremely efficient, polite, methodical delivery staff; have no fear, there won't be any "Hey, how's it going geezer?! Did ya watch tha footy?!" small-talk here, nor any off-putting 'huffs and puffs' from peeved-off drivers, as the Addie's delivery crew are like commandos, straight in, straight out, "hi and bye" is all you get (if that), and that's it. For the more frugal of you out there, rest assured, you will not encounter any 'Oxfam eyes' from the driver, as the passing-over of the food is complete, but I always tip anyway, so personal preference is key here. 

The food is gorgeous. I quickly became an Addie's addict circa 2006/2007, when I was living in an apartment block in South Kensington, and had the good fortune of coming across one of their menus they had left on the counter of the reception down in the lobby. The rest is history. I was ordering at least three times a week from them, and quickly became a regular... Alas, I am no longer an addict now, as I went into re-hab (moved 'north of the park'), and as they don't deliver too far from their base-camp, their food is something I will not have the pleasure of experiencing any time soon. 

FOOD:

Phad Thai: 'Alice in Wonderland'-styled appearance of this staple Thai dish, with whopping chunks of all the ingredients crammed into the container, with the lid literally bursting at its seams. Almost looks alive. Chunky prawns, thick wahds of egg-streaks, beansprouts, crushed nuts, you name it, it's all there (choice of Chicken/Pork/Veg/Prawns). Don't forget to mix it up as it comes with chili powder and other condiments that need to be blended into the mix. It has a remarkably addictive fishy taste to it, and once you've had the first mouthful, your arm involuntarily goes into 'industrial revolution mode' and you start shoveling it into your mouth at an ever-increasing rate. Too delicious. Ought to come with a speed-limit warning on the container 'SPEED LIMIT - 3 mouthfuls per minute'.

Grilled Neck End Pork: It's not very often you get to devour half a Pig's neck whenever you order an Oriental takeaway/delivery; but with this dish, that's pretty much exactly what you get. Unbelievably chewy slices of Pork, which are all lined up in their original pre-cut formation, so you can see the extent of the slab of meat. Tantalizingly tasty. Quite spicy as well, but has some kind of unique Thai style spiciness to it, as opposed to the usual 'chili-sauce type of heat'. Pure heaven for meat-lovers. Comes with the chargrilled marks on it too!!! 

Starters: They do a selection of miniature filled pastry styled starters, which are pretty small and dainty, but are tasty nonetheless. They have two 'platters', the 'normal' version and a 'Royal' version (or in your case Royle), and I could never be bothered to learn the difference between the two, so I just ordered both of them and beed done with it. Watch out, coz there's a bucket load of fat here as it is all deep-fried...

Fish dishes: Being a Thai restaurant, fish is prominent on the menu, and there are a couple of dishes that stand out here. I can't remember the exact name, but there's a mixed-fish dish that comes with a gigantic mussel, a bunch of other seafoods, and includes a slab of battered fish. It's a medley of pure unadulterated fishyness; basically a fish-tank without the tank. It's the sauce that makes all the difference here; like a syrupy, slightly spicy, slightly sweet, slightly sour kind of flavour, that just leaves you slurping it up like there's no tomorrow. Careful of the shells!!!

Grilled stuff: Along with the grilled neck-end Pork, they grill a few other things as well, most notably some King prawns, which inevitably take on the wonderful smokey charred flavour from whatever it is that they are grilling it on (it has to be some kind of charcoal BBQ); the black char-lines are testament to that. It's like you're starring in your own Fosters ad with this one, "Chuck a couple of shrimps on tha barbie willya Addie. Toodles."

Addie's Thai, the legend lives on...